The Last Mistake
by Blackout the Swordsman
Summary: Vash never learns. Just because Knives is crippled doesn't mean he isn't evil incarnate.
1. Moonlit Farewell

Beneath the stars Vash wept. Fresh blood, still warm covered his hands. Meryl looked up at him with icy eyes, her pale skin even whiter under the three moons. He picked up the woman he loved and moved her to her own separate grave just at the foot of the town monument, right beside Milly. He had not known the other townspeople, and gave them less formal or respectful burials, but he buried them just the same.

It had been one whole day. An entire day since Vash had crippled his brother and carried him into town. Why? Why did Vash think Knives would change? Just because he was injured.... It didn't slow him down when he killed any of them, _all_ of them. Vash would never make that mistake again.

He looked to the first rising sun, the light of Hell burning in his eyes. He had been moved to this rage before, but never had it been coupled with this resolve. He would find Knives, and he would not hesitate to kill him.

_Rem, you told me that it is wrong for anyone to kill another. That no one has the right to end lives_, "But it is to the benefit of the world to kill Knives! If I let him escape he will recruit more demons to do his bidding. No doubt there are those that are eager to join the Gungho Guns." Vash began searching the city for any weapon he could use, regretting that he left both Angel Arms in the desert to be taken by anyone.

He returned to the town square after procuring a small handgun loaded with three bullets he found discarded in the saloon and gave his friends a final farewell. A small lamp burned and sputtered by the gate on the outer edge of town as he walked by. He upset it with his foot and walked along the road, cast in shadow by the firelight of the town.

Soon the sun overcast the blaze of the town, and Vash could finally concentrate on tracking Knives once again. He gasped with amazement as he noticed footprints in the dirt similar to his. He hadn't expected it to be this easy. But judging by the lack of detail in the track, and the width of the track, Knives must be having trouble walking straight on his feet. If he was injured enough, he may be easy to catch.

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What? Meryl and Milly DEAD!? Well, this is what _I_ expected to happen anyway. If you don't like it, too bad! And yes, they will stay dead for the rest of their lives! Note: this chapter has been edited from it's original post.


	2. Pursuit and Encounter

Endless days of walking. They are only good for one thing, thinking. Vash considered every event of his life that led up to this exact moment in time, evaluating the choices he made along the road of life. So many fleeting opportunities to stop Knives, yet he never did. Why? Knives had used him as an implement, a weapon, for as far back as he could recall. Even before Project Seeds had reached this world Knives used Vash's emotional strife to pierce Rem's iron will and to hurt her. It was as if Vash was a well orchestrated extension of Knives' malice, blinded by emotions and misunderstood ideals.

However, it wasn't his hatred or loathing of humans that motivated him, as Vash knew too well, but fear. Fear of the unknown. Unknown origins, purposes, logics and philosophies. Knives presumed the people of this planet would despise and rise up against him, harm him, so in preemptive retaliation he slaughtered them in the windrows and justified it as purification of the universe. Exterminating the spiders to save the butterflies, he called it. 

Vash, of course, was not without sin nor flaw. Yet it was his efforts to survive and to help others survive that pardoned his faults and gave him leverage to exercise untainted justice. Violence was not his means of accomplishing objectives, but the criminally insane rarely forfeit their efforts and admit they were in the wrong. On the one hand, violence solves nothing, but on the other to take no action and allow the insane to rampage would be more destructive than to incapacitate or fell the element of danger. It was on this concept that Vash fell short as an enforcer; he wished to live in a perfect world where no one died and all of life was happiness. A perfect world, an impossible goal disqualified simply by the fact that each individual has different desires, and the instant any of these desires contradict each other it is no longer a world of perfection.

Any ideal can be taken to fanatic extremes. Wolfwood understood the price of freedom, constant awareness and constant willingness to fight back, yet he let this be his excuse to kill rather than reason. Vash understood that it was love and peace that made the world worth living in, but he enforced it to the point of refusing to accept the facts of life. Knives understood that there is destruction in this universe, but he did not account for the fact that nothing is constant, all must decay, and that for every action there is a degree of rightness and wrongness attached. A moderation of each of these ideals and logics would be most suitable, yet each man was preoccupied with asserting his rightness against opposition and was therefore blinded from the other faces of the spectrum.

Vash pondered on this as his feet shifted stiffly beneath him, carrying him with a will of their own. At times he would look down at his legs and wonder briefly, instantaneously, whose legs they were. _I'm going crazy out here all alone_, Vash considered as he drifted along the dim trail scarred by wind and unsteady footsteps. It was almost three o'clock in the afternoon just two days after Vash had hauled Knives into town. The two suns were beginning their slow arc beneath the horizon, while one of the moons had eagerly peeked into the sky in the east. _I wonder where these tracks are leading. Wouldn't he have gone to get the Angel Arms back?_

The retrodden path Vash straggled along moved in large waves, swaying from side to side, traveling in a general circle toward someplace familiar. Many of the rolling dunes echoed back faint voices of winds long past. Odors of an old and familiar quality traced through the air and permeated the ambiance of Vash's hunt. Scarred faces of rocks gazed on as the devil in the red coat floated by; back then he had donned brown burlap that ruffled and crackled in strong winds. Slivers of his memory pooled together, making a whole image again.

Cognizant of his surroundings by a lingering melancholy rather than nostalgia, Vash realized where Knives had been trekking to. Not more than one and one half ile away was the drop ship Knives had spawned the Angel Arms within. _He must be going back to make another one!_ Turning to the sky, Vash despaired at the last setting sun. Nighttime was a perfect opportunity to exterminate a small town, but Knives might also be exhausted and opt to sleep. Either way, a decision had to be made- continue tracking Knives in bad light and chance losing the trail, or rest and chance allowing Knives to end more innocent lives. Rest appeared the most logical.

Vash shuffled over to a craggy rock leaning out of a dune obliquely and lay beneath the gentle slope that would provide cover from unexpected rains. His ragged breathing filled his consciousness for a brief moment, ending with an abrupt onrush of fretful sleep. From deep within the ephemeral eternity of sleep a softly lit figure came to Vash, slipping out from the veils of darkness into view. Gray eyes smiled from a pale face surrounded by lush black hair, sparkling with a light of both joy and sorrow.

Forcing tears back, stifling sobs, the two looked on at each other and considered what to say. Meryl was the first to speak, though she faltered, "Vash, I- I don't want you to be angry. It was my careless behavior that made Knives--"

"No. Nothing you could have done would be reason for Knives to...." Vash fell silent, afraid to offend Meryl. Strange as the situation was, speaking to a dream, he felt she deserved more respect than to be told the harsh truth. There are greater forms of communication in times such as this, one being tactile. Meaningless as it was, Vash wrapped his wispy arms around her quivering figure and rocked her on her heels. In exchange she hummed that old, familiar lullaby Rem would comfort him with.

As she sang her voice began to crack, tears wetting the neck of Vash's coat. Meryl bunched up his coat in her hands and pushed him back arm's length, still on the verge of crying uncontrollably. "You have always been right, Vash. This world is filled with love and peace, so please, Mr. Vash, help Knives see that." The dam of numbed emotions broke, releasing a turgid flood of wailing and sobs, yet she continued, "Please don't kill him because you are angry with him! I-"

Vash tilted her head up and looked into her eyes, crying as well. "But he took so much from you! How can you forgive him?"

"If we don't stop this circle of hate, it will continue to grow until every person on this planet will hate each other. You have to show them that love is stronger than violence." More footsteps echoed from the darkness behind Meryl, advancing out of the black mists. Millie towered solemnly, seeing Vash over Meryl's head with ease. Her usual cheer also waned, replaced by a grim smile.

Seeing Vash troubled at the sight of her, she forced a smile and a laugh and managed to say in a perky voice, "My dad always told me that no matter how bad you feel, if you force yourself to smile you'll stop frowning! I know it sounds pretty obvious, but it's worked for me for many years." She got caught on her last statement, realizing the bitter irony that it would no longer work as there would be nothing in the world powerful enough to make her smile again. She turned quickly on her heels to hide her face, apologizing over her heaving shoulders.

Gray beams of light began seeping through the black threads of mist, obscuring Vash's view of the girls as they disseminated with the dim clouds. Vash realized that he was awaking, and that he had limited time to confess his sentiments to Meryl. As he parted his lips to speak, Meryl placed her finger across his mouth to silence him. Sapped of energy Vash collapsed to the floor, unable to stand, as Meryl lay down beside him. Almost all had turned to white, soft phosphorescence filling the entire space. Meryl leaned against Vash, sighed, and hugged him tightly.

At that instant the light faded to black, taking her with it, and left him feeling sore and parched. He was awake. In his state of waking he felt lonely, but realized he was not alone.

  


  


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Well, that took a lot of effort out of me. I sure hope this chapter was better, not that I'm the type who would say so myself. Just make sure to review it no matter what else happens, okay?


	3. The Deadly Quartet

Gah! Gruh! (General grunting noises) Well, I _intended_ for last chapter to end on a cliffhanger, but my lack of an editor and inability to edit late into the night has caused it to look like it ended on a mushy note. My bad. But just to let you know, that last sentence in chapter two was supposed to imply there is a stalker nearby. Yah, anyway, here's the new chapter.

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A sound, squealing perhaps, more like knives rubbing together, resonated from a distance. Vash opened his eyes to see a paunch man garbed in brown, face obscured by a long red scarf littered with green zebra stripes and a pair of golden goggles strapped tightly to his bald head, standing no more than seven yarz away. He slumped forward a bit, which made him shorter than he already was. The sound came from his direction again, and a flicker of movement caught Vash's eye. He wore metal gauntlets, slips of metal lining his hand and ending in razor claws he could manipulate with his fingers; as he clawed the air they scraped together like scissors.

Vash moved to rise when the stranger spoke up, "I am Horace the Claw, the third of the Deadly Quartet. I and my friend over there-" he pointed to something above Vash, hidden by the roof of the miniature cave he had slept in "have been sent by your brother to stop you. He said we could slow your progress, but he really has almost given up hope on you, dear boy." There was a tone of sadistic delight in his last comment, lending itself to his intentions. Horace may have been old, but he looked capable of backing his talk.

Almost on cue a leg dropped over the mouth of the shelter, dangling for a time before being followed down by a much younger man with bright black hair and eyes to match, dressed in a spotless white doctor coat and slacks. He straightened his coat before looking up at Vash, smirking lightly. "Thank you for the introduction, Horace, but I do believe I can handle the rest. I am Phillip the Gimmick, the second of the Deadly Quartet. You see, we are the middle men, so to say," he chuckled with insane glee, "and do all the dirty work planned out by our leader, but we leave the demolition work for the subordinate. Quite efficient setup, actually." He paced around the mouth of the shelter, boxing Vash in as he spoke. "You probably won't be seeing the other two for some time, if ever, so why don't we get to know each other?"

_I knew it, Knives recruited more people to do his dirty work_, Vash thought as he observed Horace for any telltale weaknesses, glancing on occasion to Phillip. He was not prepared to fight. His body ached from walking many hours, his skin stung from long exposure to the burning sun, a churning pain filled his stomach. Vash absolutely craved water; there were only three bullets in the gun he carried. Phillip had him cornered. This fight would end soon.

"Let's start off with something of relative interest, shall we? Then we can work into the more boring details once we've acquainted ourselves." Phillip cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair, Horace flitted his fingers playfully again. "You have a woman you are attached to, correct? Or rather, you _were_ attached to her, but I hear from Knives that you do tend to have dreams about these people even after their untimely deaths. Do you?" Vash nodded, straining to keep from lunging at Phillip. Some quality of his voice grated at him. "You have a disorder common in many shock victims in which your brain makes an effort to prevent psychological damage by sugar-coating, if I should put it that way, the dilemma you face. You refuse to accept their deaths by giving them life in your dreams, thereby softening the harshness of reality."

Vash bristled at the words, hatred and resentment boiling in his veins. "Are you telling me that Rem is something I made up! She is real! How could I be so cowardly that-"

"Obviously, Vash, I have hit a nerve. A chemical irregularity in your brain that you cannot control. Why else would you defend a woman who has been dead for almost a century?" Vash slumped down in resignation, unwilling to argue. "I have studied your behavior for some time now, and have found that the two halves of your brain are conflicting, Vash. The more artistic half of your brain wants to make your life a melodrama with you at the center, a pity party starring you, while the more literal half of your brain tells you to protect your mate. Just like animals. We have studied this in rats and found it to be true. Your brain is not functioning well due to trauma. Everybody thinks you should give up before you hurt yourself."

The word stuck to him, echoed and reverberated throughout him, amplifying with every pass through his mind. Everybody. Everybody was angry at him. But how could that be true? Meryl loved him, Wolfwood was still his friend. No, wait, they were both dead. How could they be his friends if he killed them? How could they feel anything if they were dead? Maybe this man was right, maybe something indeed was wrong with Vash. But he fought for love and peace, how could that be wrong?

Grinning, Phillip moved closer to Vash in an effort to intimidate him. _Push him back into his own little cave while he's confused_, thought Phillip, inspired to speak again. "And look at you, sleeping in a cave. You are afraid the world will see what you have become. Many shelters around here, and yet you choose the one that symbolizes your simple mind. You are vermin in a cave, Vash, afraid of the light outside. Afraid of your own shadow, you try to outrun yourself so you won't have to confront any of the problems _you_ create. You are a liability, and everyone knows it. They all think you should stay in here."

This was too much for Vash, and the worst part of it all was, it was true. He wept silently now, his voice hoarse and dry, "How many?"

"I beg your pardon?"

He turned a glare filled with rage up toward his oppressor, slowly rising and growing more vehement in speech. "How many people even know I'm right here, right now? And who exactly is this everybody you keep talking about?" Phillip stared on coldly, silent. He made no effort to speak for some time. "So there isn't really anyone else but you, right? The 'everybody' you talk about is you, right?!" Phillip slid his foot back a hair, an infinitesimal retreat. His face felt hot and his forehead beaded with sweat. They locked eyes, exchanging hateful glares.

Both men jumped at a loud clang ringing off the roof of the cave. Vash looked up to see what Phillip was fearfully gazing at, a knife embedded into the ancient rock. From up on the hill Horace called down, "Really now, I'm getting bored. Why don't you let our friend out so he and I can play for a while." Phillip nodded nervously, taking a few shaky paces back to allow Vash out of the shelter.

Vash stormed up the side of the dune, his muscles surging though exhausted, until he came face to face with the aging man. As if in silent challenge to Horace's apparel Vash slipped out his glasses and forced them up the bridge of his nose, snorting in distaste as he pressed them firmly against his brow. The hard lines running down Horace's face softened, curved upward slightly in a smile masked by scarf and grim hatred. "Well, well! I see we share a commonality, no? I am quite fond of these goggles. They were a gift from an old friend. Please spare me any grievance by avoiding them in our fight, would you dear boy?"

Vash eased, hoping he wouldn't have to hurt anyone. "And certainly someone like you would never think to hit a man wearing glasses, would you?"

"Never." Vash caught the cold draft of his voice at the same time he felt a hand pulling his head down into Horace's knee, jarring the shades from his face. He stumbled blindly a few feet, moaning and clutching his bleeding nose. Whipping around to regain his senses, Vash felt another blow catch his right flank just below the ribcage, sliding up underneath his bent arm. Again before the world oriented itself Vash found his arm locked at his side, forearm pinned to upper arm. A knife's edge pressed against his throat, and he could hear Horace wheeze from behind his ear, "If you value your life, which I hear you don't, don't move an ich or I'll extend your mouth to the base of your neck!" On reaction Vash swallowed, cringing at the razor biting into his skin.

Phillip moved around in front of Vash and stared long and hard at him, his confidence and composure reestablished. He parted his lips slightly, sucked in a small breath of air, and spoke. "You enjoy self abuse as a source of punishment for your failures, but self abasement is an altogether different source of pain you have not hardened against yet. You despise yourself, yet cherish your values. You place too much importance on the words of a dead woman, Vash." Infuriated, Vash lunged forward only to be caught by Horace's clawed hand and drawn back. Sticky, hot blood dribbled down his neck as Phillip continued nonchalantly, "As I said, and let me reiterate, your problem is that the two halves of your brain are conflicting, Vash. The more artistic half wants everyone around you to feel sorry for you, for your life to be one big pity party with you as the guest of honor, the main attraction. Meanwhile the more literal half of your brain wants you to protect the ones you think are your friends, to be strong and affirmative and take action. Yet you run, so your brain punishes you for disobeying it by creating a chemical imbalance that makes you depressed and suicidal. When you _do_ take action, it is against your 'values', so you punish yourself again anyway. Don't make life a pretty little rainbow land by dreaming up your friends to aid you when they are dead!"

As Vash considered what Phillip said, the psychiatrist dug around in his pocket until he found a small oblong article and pulled it out, shoving it offensively close to Vash's face. "You are unhealthy, Vash. You need help, so I'll do you a favor and administer this to you immediately." He drew his hand back until Vash could see it was a syringe filled with an ominous liquid of light blue tint. He tapped it a couple times and pressed some of the contents out to ensure it was flowing freely. As much as he wanted to stab Vash twice or three times, after the first injection he was sure to be thrashing too much for another dosage.

Even as Phillip moved to pierce his arm with the needle, Vash squirmed to free himself. "I didn't want to do this, but you have provoked me." Phillip reeled his free hand back and planted it forcefully into Vash's gut. There was no reaction; no flinching, no pain. 

"Is that really all you've got?" Vash asked incredulously.

"Why do you think he earned a name like the Gimmick? All bark and no bite."

"Thank you, Horace, that's quite enough. Now let's finish this before breakfast." He whipped into a low crouch placing a hand on Vash's shoulder, and jammed the needle deep into his midsection. When he ripped it free Horace brought his bladed hand down across Vash's chest and raked hard, blood oozing from the fresh wounds. The ground rose quickly to hit Vash in the face, colors swirling and sounds echoing. Consciousness quickly evaporated as he looked up to see a blurred face possibly staring down at him.

  


  


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Is this really a good place to end the chapter? Well too bad if it isn't! Everyone that hates Phillip the Gimmick because he's evil, raise your hand. Everyone that hates him 'cause I suck as an author, lynch me. Hey, wh-why's everyone going to the hardware store?


	4. Compromises and Conflicts

I'm serious, people. If you don't know what a word means, use the handy dictionary program on this site. Or a real dictionary. Otherwise, some parts of this story will make NO SENSE **AT ALL**. Some cursing in this chapter, just to let you know. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  


Sprawled on the ground, darkness filling his being, Vash could hear the sinister men tromping away, their chatter and laughter fading off into the distance. Pain debilitated his arms as he tried to wipe blood-soaked mud from his face and neck. Spasms induced by a combination of drugs, exhaustion, and blood loss threw him deeper into the void of nihility, until a voice rumbled across the dunes and through the sand to Vash. The omnipotent voice was soon recognized to be that of none other than Nickolas D. Wolfwood.

Now standing, or assuming he was standing for sake of orientation, Vash turned his ethereal head to see his friend leaning against a polished marble cross that reflected a soft glow like the light of angels. Small tufts of grass sprouted around the base of the cross, stretching their leaves out pining for sunlight. Wolfwood dragged deeply from his cigarette. "Is this the last time I have to save your sorry ass?" Wolfwood joked from behind swirling wisps of smoke.

"Who said you were doing anything to save me right now?" countered Vash, smiling back at his friend.

_There he goes with that big goofy grin of his_, Wolfwood mused to himself. "You don't know it yet, but the only reason you aren't dead yet is you haven't crossed that line." He casually indicated a row of grass and weeds growing in a line across the black ground, illuminated under the same soft light reflecting off the cross. "You've got determination like no one I've ever seen that passes through these gates, not that I've been here very long.

"Truth is, you should be dead right now, but I worked it out with management to see that you stay alive if you really want to. If you find the will to stand up, I will do everything I can to keep you alive." Detecting Vash's confusion, he pointed to the battered corporeal Vash laying at Vash's feet. All the while he talked in a business tone, neither happy nor sad, caught between very separate emotions. _I wish I didn't have to send you back out there to torture yourself again_, Wolfwood worried grimly. _And at the same time, I know better than anyone else that you've got some impossible solution brewing in your mind. But what separates you from me, is that it will work._

"So I guess it's a one-way road, huh? If I cross that line I can't go back." Wolfwood nodded. "Are the insurance girls there?"

Wolfwood gave a smug grin and a quick laugh. "Yeah, but they can't come here. Apparently I did enough good in my life to earn some overtime, but I'm working off of borrowed time right now. If you're going to decide, do it quickly. Management doesn't like the 'dearly departed' talking to the living for very long, if ever."

Vash sighed and cast a glance at the endless black all about him, looking to Wolfwood and gave his parting words, "Don't think of me as girly, but I really would like to give you a hug."

His voice rolling through Vash's body with the omnipresence of an angel, Wolfwood responded, "Sure thing, but you gotta cross that line to get to me." Vash simply smiled and walked deeper into the darkness. The further he moved, the more solid he began to feel again, until he was aware of a tingling sensation in his arms and legs. It started as a numbness, gently grew to life, to feeling, to pain.

A deep inhale was met with a puff of dust, irritating Vash's throat and nose. He sputtered a few times, spitting out blood occasionally, and groaned. Resting his head for a while, he remembered he had been carrying a gun and checked his holster with a brush of his hand. His fears were confirmed, the gun was missing. He ground his face in the dirt and cursed.

After lying still to recover himself to some extent, Vash drew his arms in to lift himself off the ground when he noticed a scuffling sound. He tried futilely to look past his shoulders, but before he could see anything the gruff wheezing voice of a certain Horace greeted him. "I see you are indeed still alive. Very impressive. Phillip said he had no doubts you would survive, but that he didn't feel like waiting, so I am the only one present and available to entertain your fancies. I hope you slept well."

Rolling on his side, arms and shoulders screaming in protest, Vash looked up at Horace through watery eyes. The old man was slumped over him, poised to strike at any sign of danger, yet casual and calm. "How am I supposed to fight you without a gun?" queried Vash.

Horace laughed roughly, "That's the point! Those poor shits in the Gung-ho Guns made one fatal- and I use the word quite literally- mistake when they opposed you. They fought you on the one platform you excel at most, gunfighting. We are not fools and have found it much to our benefit to engage you in melee combat. Surely a man trained only in marksmanship couldn't put up a fight unarmed. Mind you, however, it was not I who took your gun, but that bore Phillip. He has a tendency to make things much less..." Horace paused to consider his word choice. "Interesting." _Is that really the best my vocabulary could conjure? Perhaps being around that fragile little pansy has dulled my senses. He must be boring me to death._

Vash eyed his challenger's bladed hands and the many sheaths strapped along his legs and belt. "Not a fair fight if you get so many weapons to yourself. Are you afraid of me?" Horace jolted at this insult as if stricken by a heart attack. A wicked smile and an even grimmer hatred spread across his face. Straining against pain, Vash struggled to rise. 

He gasped when a pair of hands wrapped securely but gently across his chest and heaved him upward. "A wispy seedling challenges the stout oak? I fear no one. Don't conclude I am too weak in mind or in body to kill you." Once on his feet Vash nodded and sprang forward, pursued shortly after by Horace. Immediately noticing a whirring sound over his left shoulder, Vash dug his heel into the ground and spun about thrusting his arm out. The back of his clutching hand bludgeoned Horace in the face, cracking his nose and displacing his goggles.

Horace had not expected such a swift retaliation, and in a stupor slipped to the ground. Enraged, he lashed out in broad, careless sweeps. Not favoring a cheap shot to the side while he was down, he unsheathed and flicked a knife with hardly a glance. He shot up to his feet again, taking up a balanced stance in preparation for another attack. Finding Vash in hesitation, he blurted out, "You're supposed to be bad at hand fighting! How can you be so skilled in every field of combat? I have trained with the blade my entire life, yet you apparently master a new school of combat effortlessly. Instantly, I might add." He could feel his blood boil, rage and frustration fueling his assault.

Horace lunged, first doubling back, then lurching forward with his arms flailing limply behind. Just two paces from Vash, he thrust downward and swung full force with both arms in a cross cleave. A wrenching sensation pulled at his stomach. _Why didn't I hit anything?_ He felt a tap on his back, sending shivers along his spine. "Are you some kind of demon?! How can you possibly move that fast?" Horace demanded as his voice grew hoarse and quivered.

Determination born of fear sent him in a flurry of sweeps both high and low, close and far, moving in great spirals and geometric patterns. His fear intensified with every strike that missed, which were numerous. Finally, he caught Vash in the side of the head with the inside of his hand, a broadside clout but a hit no less. At the instant his hand rebounded from Vash's skull he recalled an important fact, Vash had been mortally wounded for nearly an hour and a half.

Vash hopped backward with arms upraised to fend off more blows, bewildered to find Horace drop his guard in despair. He stared aghast at Vash, immobilized with fear. "Those injuries. They should have killed you! They haven't even slowed you down! If anything you are far faster this time around."

"Well, you caught me offguard with a cheap trick the last time. But you're right about these," he ran his fingers along the rippled scars on his neck and chest, "I do tend to heal quickly."

Horace was panicking now. "You stupid shit! You don't know anything about fighting! How many scars do you have to show off? Youngsters don't know anything about the world. They tell people like me to fuck off, well I'm older than you and am therefore wiser!"

"I don't know about that," Vash mumbled, loosening the buttons on his collar. Vash cut Horace short before he could begin his query, "You think I don't have any scars? I don't know why that is a source of pride to you, not when we can live together in harmony." He continued unfastening the buttons of his coat as he talked, removing it, folding it over and placing it on the ground. Next he reached up and unhinged the latches on his suit at the neck and both wrists, loosening it from his body. Gripping at the sleeves he yanked his arms through, then reached up through the neck and rolled the suit down to his waist.

Bare-chested, he displayed the maze of jagged gashes, stitches and gauze that trailed down his body. Horace chuckled through his gaping mouth, dumbstruck at the sight. "I see there are many things in this world I have yet to encounter. You are obviously one determined fighter. 'Love and peace', that's what you spout, but why does your body tell a tale of violence? Why would you put yourself through such agony if your goal is a peaceful world? And is that arm... prosthetic?"

_You're not so interested in fighting anymore, are you?_ Vash thought smugly. He tapped the metal joint of his elbow, "This one? Yeah, it's prosthetic. Lost it at July."

"And you have continued to persevere for the last thirty years?" Slowly, a new appreciation for life crept over Horace, along with a slight "Thank god I'm not him" feeling. This man before him despised violence, and yet he continued to fight for the last thirty years for- for what? For his ideals, his idea of Eden. If such a seemingly weak and pathetic individual exerted himself to near-fatal limits so that he could achieve world peace, why would one be proud of being able to destroy so little when one cheated his way there? The dichotomy was immeasurable, so great a distance it made Horace find his past to quite absurd now.

"So this is what you do. This is how the Gung-ho Guns fell to you. I see now why Knives fears you. You're unstoppable." Horace carefully meddled with the latch to his glove until it came unfastened and he discarded it. He then worked off his other glove and added, "Because you're right."

"What? I don't understand what you mean." Vash started to approach Horace.

"Don't come near me. I still don't like you. I declare a ceasefire, but if you get close I remain willing and able to gut you." To ensure his threat did not fall empty he drew a knife. He gestured with his drawn weapon to the east as he removed some of the sheaths strapped to his clothes. "Phillip and the rest of the Deadly Quartet are over in the next town. If you want your gun back go get it from him. And pop him one in the balls for me, I didn't like the dipshit. As for me," he wandered off, discarding more of his weapons, "I'm going to plant a tree or something."

_Works for me_, thought Vash, replacing his suit and coat. He turned to the east with a hardened glare of determination and continued his trek.

  


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That took me a long time to write.... Hopefully I won't be too lazy to get the next chapter done in less than a week. And as a preemptive warning, there will probably be a considerable amount of carnage in the next chapter (that's what I planned anyway).


	5. Jack the Dreadnought

It was a natural reaction for the townspeople to gather fearfully in the streets when he came. The ground quaked, timbers shifted and groaned, windows rattled in their frames with every labored step that brought him closer to the surging pack of men and women. Some carried guns as a subliminal precaution, others pitchforks and shovels. A few of the younger ones bore no arms at all, hiding behind their fathers and uncles.

"What- what are you doing here?" demanded the man nearest the Goliath, flourishing his rifle. The monstrous form edged closer, unresponsive. Again the man demanded the animate boulder to speak. Wordlessly the giant swung his meaty hand out, cleaving his challenger's arm with a resounding snap and tear reminiscent to that of fabric rent asunder. Immediately a cacophony of screams and wails erupted. The youths fled the site, abandoning the less nimble elders and those transfixed in catatonia. Not one steadfast soul stood among the lot.

The titanic horror brought his boot swiftly into the hapless man's chest, crushing bones and organs until his body conformed to the shape of the monster's foot, smashing him airborne. His whiskey-barrel arms wrapped around the broken form and brought him down in a crushing suplex. He arose from the murder painted in blood, donning a black ten-gallon hat, wearing a black coat accented with edges of blue and metal bands lining the lapels. His splayed hands could wrap around most men, his feet could crush a skull, his limbs swelled and rippled with unnatural power. The midday suns obscured the hardened lines of his face in shadows, punctuated by the gleam of his eyes. He was known briefly by the living, and bitterly by the dead, as Jack the Dreadnought.

Sands scuttled across the dunes with a faint swishing, the flowing tides of the parched sea. Odors trickled through the wind, playing at a promise of unseen things just beyond the horizon. Small critters scurried away from Vash as he plodded on eastward. A minuscule sensation was nagging at him, an awareness of some inconsistency somewhere. A jagged irregularity that protruded from the universally correct, yet he could not identify what troubled him.

He took inventory of his senses checking for oddities. The sky was a light icy blue across the horizon, and deep cobalt directly above. Golden brown dunes wavered in the hot air. No plants could be found anywhere. White clouds as soft as cotton scooted through the sky casting shadows on the ground lazily. Vash decided it was not anything he saw that was unusual. He turned his attention on himself, focusing on what he could feel. His boots fit snugly on his feet, warm from the beating sunlight. His pants were also snug, yet appropriately loose in places. His legs ached, yearning to stop. Gashes across his chest burned and felt sticky with what blood hadn't dried and caked to his body. Nothing about his arm bothered him. Aside from the wounds on his neck, there was nothing that was out of the ordinary.

Next he checked any unusual smells. It presently became evident what was bothering him. The scent of iron, but with a slightly different quality to it, traveled in wafts from the east. The smell had been disguised by the dirt, and made even more faint by the southbound wind sweeping it away, but he knew something suspicious was happening to the east. He anxiously quickened his pace. _It must be the town Horace was talking about_, Vash concluded.

As he was thinking he noticed rooftops rising above the dunes less than one ile away. A sudden lump of panic swelled up in his chest, and he leaned into a full sprint toward the houses that rose into and dipped from view as he passed over mounds of sand. The soft ground absorbed his footsteps and wasted some of his momentum, yet he continued quickly toward the town. Over his heavy breathing and tromping footsteps he thought he could hear a crashing sound, like wood splintered under impact. With every step he felt more compelled to vomit, an urge brought on by exhaustion, fear, and disgust at what may be occurring within the town.

Jack looked with sadistic pride at the gaping hole in the cottage wall he had made. Blood rimmed the shattered boards, pieces of flesh stuck to splinters. Inside the cottage, lying atop the rubble of the destroyed wall, a boy sighed his last breath and never stirred again.

Standing beside him, his sister cried; her sobs muffled by a blanket she clutched. Jack stooped low to enter the cottage through the cavity, scanning over the furniture for any survivors he missed. He strained his eyes against the shifting dark interior, but he was certain he saw motion, heard a scratch. _Somewhere in there_.... His big hands wrapped around the frame of the breach and he hoisted himself inside. Halfway in he noticed a new scream from the edge of town. His smile broadened.

Blood and broken bodies littered the street like old pieces of trash. There was no discrimination in his victims; men, women, children, elders, animals. Vash trembled at the sight, and falling to his knees obliged his urge to hurl. He was relieved, but seeing fragments of bone scattered across the dirt road brought on another wave of bile. Now he felt shaky, his eyes drooped sleepily. His arms quaked as he pushed himself to stand, his legs could collapse at a change in the wind. He stumbled at a small tremor in the ground.

With belabored steps he moved through the ravaged town, turning his eyes upward to avoid seeing the carnage piled around him. It hadn't been iron he smelled. It was _blood_, large quantities of it. Another vibration shook the ground, and ahead of Vash the facade of a building exploded, spewing shrapnel through the street. A hunched, hulking mass rose from the billowing cloud of dust and debris, flexing his enormous musculature.

A small girl whined in breathless gasps as he gripped her head with a single hand. Vash pleaded him to stop, yet he lifted her off the ground oblivious to all else. He reared his second hand back, and pressed his fingers firmly together. Vash screamed again, his voice cracking. Jack the Dreadnought threw a quick glance around, drew his hand back a bit further, and swiftly brought it down across her eyes. Her skull imploded with ease. When he was done he cast her aside like an old bullet shell, completely useless and with no value to anyone.

He looked smugly at Vash, satisfied with himself. _Did you enjoy my little demonstration?_ he thought maliciously. "I am Jack the Dreadnought, the fourth of the Deadly Quartet. Welcome." He announced his presence with casual grace in his deep voice, detached from the self-styled horror spread out at his feet. Many years ago, weakness had been the cause of many lashes on his back and face from his father and other older men. Therefore, he now took sublime pleasure in being the strongest. No one could hurt him if he was strong. But strength alone would not save him, he had to be willing to use the force available to him on others.

Vash bowed his head low, fists clenched and eyes shut tight, gritting his teeth. He hunched over in rage, his breathing came in quips and spurts. The display amused Jack. It was comical to him to watch such a little man try to put on a show, to intimidate him with his straw arms. The titan inhaled sharply through clenched teeth and curled his arms across his chest, mocking Vash with his superior flex. Vash snapped his luminous blue eyes on the giant, and he sagged like a wet towel in his bewildered shock.

Jack feared no one, especially not some wiry softy who couldn't handle a little violence. Any man that lashed out against him would soon become part of his growing tally of casualties, a tally marked by stains of blood. Horror was the only emotion he found in any fated man he loomed over. He feared no one, in most cases.

The diablo's rage had subsided, replaced now by a placid hatred. An unearthly aura of disgust and detestation emanated from him, an adamant purpose that would not falter in the face of any adversity. It was sheer intention, plain and simple. Nothing flashy about it, just a "now this will happen" composure. He strode forward in gliding steps, eyes fixed on the giant. Within striking range Jack swung his massive hand in a wide arc. Vash ducked low to the side, the rebounding blow skimming his arm and cracking the bone. Presently Vash straightened himself, quickly catching a second hook with the back of his metal arm.

A deadlocks ensued, both men glaring fiercely at one another. Jack strained to overpower Vash, his muscles surging. Vash slid sideways through the dirt, grinding and shifting his feet to plant himself firmly. With a final rush of force Jack thrust Vash aside, grabbing his arm swiftly once freed of the deadlocks. He peered at Vash, curiosity pulling at his features. "Hm. Nice toy. I wouldn't mind having one of my own." He wrenched his iron grip, shattering the synthetic fibers and beams of his arm.

Vash screamed in anguish, grabbing the bleeding stump of his arm. In the shock the anchors fastening the prosthesis to his arm had been dragged through the flesh, lacerating the muscle. Now the arm hung limp with a new joint, twitching furiously in spells. Vash clawed at the base of the artificial limb, removing screws to detach it. It fell to the ground in a heap.

"That must have been why you were so strong. You cheated by using a robotic arm." The Dreadnought leaned over his prey, a posture he was most accustomed to. "There's no way in hell a little piece of crap like you could give me any trouble with the state you're in." He spoke not to inspire fear in Vash, but to reassure himself and regain his confidence. Being rivaled by such a scrawny man had shaken him up, and he needed to reassert himself as the dominant force. He bolted forward to strike, causing Vash to stumble over backward in a confused retreat.

The monster brought his hefty foot down to smite Vash. Prostrate and defenseless, he rolled over his ruined arm, grabbed at the sand to pull himself along, and continued rolling as Jack stormed after him dropping heavy stomps and punches in the dusty road iches behind him. Vash whipped his legs out and thrust himself into a spiral to spin to his feet, but Jack snatched him by the shin and flung him into the air. He stepped up and placed a wide hand across Vash's chest, bunched his arm up at his side, and pushed Vash into the ground.

He lay sprawled for a time, faintly aware of the hulking mass lurching toward him. With his final fragment of strength he rolled from the path of Jack as he crashed to the ground in a leg drop. Both remained still for a few seconds, but before Vash could recover Jack rose to his feet. He bound his hands around Vash and lifted him from the ground again, setting him securely on his feet. "Run. It will be more fun that way."

Vash gazed at him in a drowsy stupor, disbelieving the Dreadnought would be compassionate.

"I said run!" Jack screamed, knocking Vash across the gut. He stumbled backward, but refused to fall. Squarely facing his opponent, Vash raised his arms in front of himself and prepared to defend against any attacks. Jack laughed raucously at bloody, metal-capped stump aimed at his chest. Twisting his body and rearing his arm back, he gave the warning one last time in an even voice, "Run." 

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Video games don't make you violent, I swear it. And, uh, I don't know if this was a good chapter. Anyway, I won't make anymore chapters this grusome for quite some time, and I _never_ use excessive violence without reason.


	6. Fight

I haven't made any disclaimers yet, so here goes. Trigun, including all characters within it, do not belong to me. Each individual of the Deadly Quartet _does_ belong to me, but the name "Deadly Quartet" itself is a phrase coined by L. Ron Hubbard, and has _nothing_ to do with any group of people. Just thought I'd clarify that. 

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Jack the Dreadnought swung his heavy hand toward Vash like a catapult loosed of its cable. The Humanoid Typhoon spun around the outside of the attack, the art of his maneuver lost in his fatigue. Standing beside the bulky heathen, he released a few straight jabs into the exposed, wide flank with his good arm. Jack grunted, slightly phased, but shook off the pain and spun to deliver a backhand. Vash ducked to the left.

With agility and swiftness uncommon for such a massive man, Jack reversed his motion and caught Vash with a clothesline to the neck. Vash fell to the ground barely conscious. A foot pressed down on his stomach, knocking him breathless. Jack ground his foot in Vash's gut, leaning his weight into it. He could feel the body beneath him about to give way, to collapse under the pressure, but backed off at the sound of a gunshot.

Smoke drained from the upraised barrel Phillip held. He leveled his aim at the two briefly, then holstered his weapon. "Sorry to interrupt, Jack, but it looked like you were about to have the best part. I hope you share some of the cream filling with me." He smiled down at Jack, the only one of the Deadly Quartet he was truly fond of, from the elevated end of the road. He walked briskly toward them, casting a dulled, emotionless eye over the heaps of murdered townspeople.

"I sure as hell don't need _your_ help, Phillip. I think you're just jealous I can kick his ass ten times quicker than you ever could. Hell, it took you _and_ Horace, and where is Horace now? Dead, probably. Well, while you're here can you get this wimp to start moving?" He kicked Vash in the side, nudging him over onto his back. "He isn't being very fun."

"I know how it is. He hasn't started any of it on me yet, but you really should listen to those ideals of his. It could drive a man crazy, how optimistic he was toward the Gung-ho Guns. Well, on to better things, I say."

Phillip wrapped his hands underneath Vash's arms and struggled to hoist him up. He lifted him less than a foot off the ground, grunting and wheezing, and dropped him again in exhaustion. Stooped over to catch his breath, he looked across at Jack giving him a suspicious raise of the eyebrow. Jack clenched down on Vash's shoulder and pulled him up to his feet. "You both suck."

Vash moaned quietly, drawing Jack's attention. He raked his fingers across Jack's eyes, and freed of his grip bolted for cover behind a building. Phillip fumbled at the gun in his holster, firing careless shots once his weapon was drawn. "Why did you distract me with all that wailing?"

"Fuck you! How's about you go around with scratched eyes?" One hand groped with curled fingers for Phillip's face, while he massaged his eyes with the other.

Vash leaned around the edge of his cover shouting, "Watch your language, guys!" Phillip released another volley of random shots. The Humanoid Typhoon got a mischievous idea and dashed back out into the street. He held his arms out to his sides and nonchalantly watched bullets zing by, smashing out windows and pulverizing rocks. "You know the sad part about this right? The fact that I'm not moving?"

The Gimmick released the clip from his gun, dug in his coat pocket, and slammed in a fresh clip. He set the hammer and took his aim. Considering the shot for some time, he held the gun in both hands to steady his aim and fired. The bullet passed through a loose fold of Vash's coat with a thump, grazing his ribs. He raised his eyebrows in impressed surprise. "A direct hit. It certainly is hard to beat that."

Phillip did not notice that he had actually missed, and once Vash realized this he played along. He fell to one knee and wrapped his arm across his chest. Phillip relaxed his aim until the gun hung at his side, and he took confident strides to his injured foe. "Really, genuflection is not necessary. However, I do appreciate the gesture." He pressed the muzzle against Vash's head. "Hard to miss at this range, do you not agree?"

He tugged at the trigger, satisfied at the start of the gun. He stared down at the faded, transparent face smiling up at him, and felt an uneasiness churning inside himself. Confounded, he swiped a hand across Vash's face, only to find he was looking down upon an illusion of sorts. Shock spread through his skin, down his spine, in his stomach, and across his face. From behind him, Vash asked, "Well, how hard is it to miss now?" Phillip wept softly in utter confusion and fear.

"Remember me? Or is your memory really that bad?" Jack whirled his clasped hands into Vash's side, throwing him against the steps of a porch. Phillip turned to thank him, but found a raised hand silencing him. "I didn't want him to get to the cream filling before I could." Phillip backed off, even more shocked.

He grimaced in fear, turned, and ran down the road to hide in the farthest alleyway. He pressed hard against the wall, glancing around panic-stricken. From afar he could hear Jack laughing at him. _You won't laugh next time you see me_. Within another pocket he found a vial of small white crystals floating in a clear liquid. He shook it violently, looking at it with longing before finally placing it inside a syringe.

"He makes me laugh sometimes. Well, I was hoping you would defend yourself. That's not going to happen, so I'll just finish this now." As he fell silent he curled over at the impact of a boot to his gut. Taking a few steps back he gasped, "You're supposed to be injured."

"I _am_ injured, but I spent that time regaining my strength." _I _hope_ it gives me the edge I've needed_, Vash thought nervously. He thrust another wave of kicks into Jack's gut, driving him back far enough to create an opening for an assault on the giant. When Jack was no longer in his reach he leaped sideways to his feet, carrying through with his right leg. Tough leather connected with the titan's face, jarring him to the side. Twisting around to recover his balance, Vash set his heels in the ground, bent low on his knees, and rammed Jack with an elbow driven by bodyweight.

Jack searched with his hand at his side to grab hold of Vash and cast him against some wall, but the Stampede ducked around in front of him and chopped him firmly on the neck. Giving him no time to react, Vash stabbed his straight hand just beneath the hulking ribcage and slid his hand up along the bone. The colossus coughed and sputtered, clutching at his neck and chest, and wailed again as Vash stomped vertically on his bent leg.

Pushing off from Jack's leg, Vash brought himself up to eye level and placed another forceful chop on his neck. He hopped back to the ground and pulled his fist back, ready to strike again, when Jack swiped his hands out and swatted Vash across the face.

"Enough!" bellowed the titan. Frustrated and furious, Jack bent his arm at his side and flexed it rigid. He huddled forward and, bunching up his legs, shot off like a derailed train. He plowed onward past Vash, through the framework of the porch, into the building, and out the back wall. At the other side he barreled on, never slowing, gradually circling back around to Vash. As he moved along his arm cut through the storefronts of every building he passed, kicking up a torrent of dust and splinters. Each structure he bore through collapsed and spewed shattered boards.

He screamed and howled in his berserker rage. Over broken bodies, porches, tethering stalls, automobiles, and street markets he forced his way onward in a white-hot fury; he would not be outdone by such a scrawny man. A whispered thought glanced his mind as he noticed a wisp of a white figure huddled in an alleyway, but the idea frittered away before it registered with him. With effort he bounded off to his left, now halfway back to where he left Vash, and extended both arms to reach from face to face of the buildings lining the narrow street.

As he watched the juggernaut blast around the corner towing a maelstrom of debris, Vash felt his remaining confidence diminish. To escape the path of the stampeding brick wall he scrambled to the rooftop of a house across the street, climbing unsteadily over barrels and crates that rocked wildly. From his vantage he watched as Jack smashed down the front wall directly beneath him, and felt the roof caving in as the house imploded. He bounded to the next house, which was presently struck down as well. On the ground Jack traveled in a weaving pattern, through the side wall and out the back, where he then searched above for Vash's movements. Blood dribbled from an array of cuts and punctures along his body, enormous bruises stung and burned on his chest, yet he continued in his path of destruction. _Quit hopping around so I can squash you_, he thought. _You won't get away._

_At this rate, he will definitely catch up to me_, Vash considered. So close yet so far away was another row of houses parallel to his course, and though they were already collapsed ruins, they provided him with elevated shelter until at least the other end of the city. Emerging from yet another wrecked house, Jack turned to the sky and found an empty blue eternity. Confused, he looked about quickly. He saw the red coat clambering up a corner of a house that had otherwise completely fallen apart, save sparse remains of siding clinging on.

"I'll get you!" bellowed Jack. _This is where it ends! Take down that wall you're hiding on and come back to finish you off. Bad move, Vash the Stampede._ His battered mass rammed through the support column, a few of his ribs finally giving way to the punishment, and he immediately encountered an insurmountable pain piercing his chest. The timbers that had held the roof in place lay atop the rubble at odd angles, and by horrible chance one had lodged itself deep inside Jack upon impact. He stumbled around, wailing, trying to get free of the pile of rubble. Every time he attempted to turn around the timber would snag on a large piece of the ruined building, and it would twist inside him and work at his flesh.

Recovering from his fall, Vash bolted over to help Jack remove the timber from his chest, but was rejected with defiance. The Dreadnought grabbed at the beam and pulled outward with great force, driving splinters into his back as it was dragged through his body. Jack suddenly paled, his eyes dimmed, his whole frame slumped under tremendous weight. Quivering and wobbling, he turned his pallid face to see Vash. "Bet you couldn't do this, wimp."

Vash shook his head, tears welling up in his eyes.

"That's what I thought. I'm the strongest-" He coughed violently, spitting up blood. A final gleam of life sparked in his eye, and grappling at his surroundings he hurled himself from the pile of wreckage in one last attempt to crush Vash. The last of his vitality flashed away, and he crashed to the ground where he lay dead.

Vash sobbed uncontrollably now. He pounded his fist into the shattered remains of a wall, cursing himself, Jack, the Deadly Quartet, Knives, and the remainder of the world. "These people.... Why do they refuse to get along? Why do they reject Eden with such passion? And why must I live through this firsthand?" _It must be because Knives will always continue this cycle of hatred and murder. I have to stop him so this horror will never be repeated._

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Well, that's that. And for any of you who choose to review, which does include my very few regulars, please point out anything you think I need to change or improve. I do appreciate all of the kind comments, but the bottom line is this: it ain't perfect. So tell me any things you would like to see improved, which can include grammar, wording, possibly story development, and (God forbid) spelling errors. Please don't take this as a prompt to get mean or unnecessarily critical, but don't be too kind either.


	7. Plotting

Deep within the metal cave, a rhythmic clangor shook the walls. Knives labored over a glowing rod of steel, shaping it with blows of his hammer. He worked quickly, using the parts of an old ship he had rigged to fit his purposes. A fusion reactor, installed as an emergency power supply supposing the ship's plants had failed, had been opened up and reconfigured to act as a forge. Scrounging in the cargo bay and equipment storage, Knives found a sturdy hammer he could use in his forge. He searched for scrap metal scattered through the scarred remains of the ship, or he would dismantle the walls of the ship and take the best-tempered segments.

And now his creation was nearly complete. All he needed to do was cool off this last component, drill a rifle through it, and bolt the whole thing together. He smiled down upon his work of art and anticipated the moment he would meet his dear brother.

Vash looked down at the battered corpse sprawled before him, confused and dejected. _I could have saved him. No one has to die like that._ He stumbled over his thoughts, trying to sort out what he should do next. There were no leads to find Knives with, and the Deadly Quartet would surely attempt to avenge their lost comrade.

Behind him came a man dressed in a white lab coat stepping silently over piles of rubble, mouth gaping in shock and in a flurry of mixed emotions. Jack had been a friend of sorts to him though he had feared Jack, and Jack had acted as a buffer between Horace and he. Now the Dreadnought was dead, he knew this, knew his frail friendship had been shattered, and now there was no one in whom to confide. The bounty offered for Vash was not worth carrying on, but Phillip would have his revenge. All he needed was one good blow across the skull to end his miserable life, and thus far he held the element of surprise.

Yet he hesitated. He was afraid of the Humanoid Typhoon. How could someone so scrawny kill such a massive brute, indirectly no less? Any mercenary was familiar with the rumors that passed from town to town about a man in a red coat with the Devil's luck; was this that unearthly force that aided the red one whom appeared too fragile to survive without supernatural assistance? Absolutely nothing of his visage deemed him durable enough to endure hostile environments, yet he saw his way through life unscathed.

This last factor compounded the complexity of Phillip's dilemma. Vash clearly was a valuable asset for the Deadly Quartet, and given the proper mental conditioning could become very amenable and susceptible to commands. Phillip was hinged on an uncertainty- kill Vash now and be done with this mission, or capture him and use him like a tool. He peered at his lost friend, shuddered, and made his conclusion.

Phillip drew his gun furtively, edging closer to his prey. Huddling down to take aim, he noticed a sturdy man moving over mounds of debris toward Vash. The stranger wore a loose white tunic over faded red pants, accented by a purple scarf wrapped about his neck and under his left shoulder. "This world does attract the most unusual sorts," Phillip mumbled to himself as he retreated to the shadows to observe.

Vash turned to see the stranger coming and smiled to greet him. In a mannerism of curiosity the man lightly tapped an earring hanging from his right lobe. He spoke a soft melody, "You may rest now, brother." Vash gave a weary smirk, sagged in languor, and collapsed to the ground. The odd man swooped in to catch him and heft him over his shoulder, then carried the limp Vash off to the swirling sands.

Phillip shot to his feet in outrage. He would not have his divine opportunity wasted. Leveling his aim he tugged at the trigger, but the gun refused to fire. In frustration he forced the trigger to move, pounding on it repeatedly, but to no avail. Screaming, he spiked the firearm in the dirt.

Consciousness blurred and faded, taking form and collapsing on itself again, until Vash could finally recognize the staples of his surroundings. There was a ceiling, four walls, the bed he lay in, and some amorphous mass at the corner of his eye. He rolled his head to examine the room better, but the wounds on his neck split open and a fresh flow of blood cascaded down his chest.

Footsteps thumped from the doorway over to him and a callused hand worked at the layers of gauze wrapped around his throat. Thick fingers began breaking the threads of the bandage, removing it to fit a clean one in its place. The melodic voice rang again, "You are still injured. Don't move, brother."

Vash gazed up at the dangling strands of luminous blond hair swaying about the gaudy scarf. "Who are you?"

Phillip entered a beige tent planted militantly at the crest of a dune, wind rippling its walls. He flicked a folder onto the desk before him. "Sir, I present my field report. Jack is dead and Horace is missing; I suspect he is a deserter." The aged man seated at the desk pressed his folded hands to his mouth and squinted in distressed thought.

"I see. Well, I will have to recover him."

"Yes, sir." Phillip bowed and set out for the desert again.

Striking his earring vehemently, the unusual man pondered the question. He looked to the ceiling in awed curiosity, carefully forming his answer. "You may call me...." He paused to think. Finally he stated with pride, "Hammer."

Vash gazed up at him skeptically. "Is that it? There's nothing more to it?"

"Oh, you don't like the name?" The newly christened Hammer waxed concern. The Humanoid Typhoon felt a pang of guilt to be the cause of unhappiness for the simple man. He shifted in his cot uneasily, squirming to evade his caretaker's everlasting stare. Finally, he sighed in exasperation and turned to face the wall.

He pouted in his corner and thought before speaking to Hammer while keeping his eyes on the wall. "It's a good name, but it seems too simple. And... it reminds me of someone who's caused me and many others a lot of pain."

Hammer nodded in grim sagacity. "You mean Knives."

Shocked, Vash whipped around to face Hammer again. "You know Knives?!" Hammer shrunk back in apprehension, mashing his earlobe between his fingers. It was his turn to shrink into a corner, nervous under Vash's imploring gaze. "How do you know Knives? Tell me!"

Vash sat up fully in his cot, gripping the blankets in bunches in his lap. Feeling no movement in his left arm, he grimaced at the cruel reminder his hand was still missing. As his focus wavered from Hammer, the man eased a bit and began tousling his brilliant locks. Thinking back to that sinister glare that met his eyes, the insanity and malice swimming in its depth, he shuddered and huddled low in fear. "I saw him. He's working on something, making something. I don't know what, but it looked very hefty. I couldn't see much from my confines, but it is most likely a weapon."

He looked to Vash for indications that he was useful, a smile or the like, but found instead a gawk of horror. Vash inspected him head to toe, taking in his thin build and wispy limbs, his awkward balance and his uncertain posture. The green eyes, the bright blond hair- they made sense to him now. "You're a plant, aren't you?" Hammer nodded sheepishly. "Where were you when you saw Knives?! In a ship?" He replied with another nod. "And where was this ship?!" Vash leaped from his bed in panicked excitement.

In a parental fashion, Hammer pushed him sternly back down onto the bed and commanded him to rest. "You need to regain your energy. I don't have all of the answers right now, but even if I did I would not allow you to travel in your condition." This behavior sparked a memory somewhere in the nether regions of Vash's mind, a warmth he felt when he was with Rem, and in naive longing he accepted this feeling as her presence. He wriggled until he fit comfy under the blankets and dozed to sleep. Hammer stood vigilant by the bed until he was certain Vash was sound asleep.

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That's kinda short, but I think I can leave it at that. Lookee there, I got to incorporate my only suggestion _and_ I didn't have to change much of my established plot! _Addendum and correction_: Last chapter, in my list of possible comments from reviewers I included plotline suggestions on accident. I meant to ask if there were any sentences that didn't make since due to bad structuring or explanation, but somewhere between point A and point B that got changed. 


	8. The Eye of the Storm

I felt chapter 7 was on a knife-edge border between genius and bullshit, and upon later review I didn't think it was any work of genius. Sorry about that. Well anyway, here's to hoping this chapter is better.

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Vash awoke to the aroma of bacon and eggs. He stirred and stretched in his bed, squirming to fight off languor. Opening his eyes to a blank ceiling, he paused and tried to recall where he was. Quite suddenly, images and sounds and pain flooded back to him like a foggy tidal wave. Having so many thoughts pressed on him at once, Vash began to feel drained despite the many hours of sleep he had risen from.

He slid out of bed, feeling the cool hardwood floor beneath his feet. Glancing around he noticed for the first time that the room in which he stayed was rather spartan. Only one painting of a single flower in a bland, brown vase decorated the wall. Shrugging off this minor detail, Vash walked unsteadily to the door and twisted the knob, it was unlocked. He entered a larger, though similarly undecorated, anteroom occupied by a sofa and a comfy chair sitting along the walls opposite of each other.

Padding softly to the end of the anteroom, Vash found the exit to also be unlocked, though it was jammed shut. Leaning his weight against the door, he managed to force it open. From the corner of the room, obstructed from view by the door, Hammer greeted Vash. "I'm glad you're awake. I was trying to keep the eggs warm by leaving them on the stove, but it looked like they were starting to burn." Vash stepped in the room and closed the door behind him. Now he could see Hammer, and upon sight turned to go back to bed. The plant was still sporting his purple scarf, now accompanied by a pink and white apron tied off in a neat bow.

Hammer looked up from his work and presently threw up his arms to hide from Vash. "Hey, don't come in here naked, brother." Vash shot an embarrassed glance downward. He was still in his boxers, but despite the multitude of holes it seemed like enough clothing to him. Hammer dropped his arms to his sides, chuckling and flicked his earring, arranging the prepared breakfast onto plates. "It's alright, you're fine. I was hoping you could take a joke."

"Oh," was Vash's only reply. He took a seat at the small, round dining table and began serving himself. Curiosity compounded by frustration at working with one hand boiled inside him until he could no longer suppress his question. "Where did you get meat like bacon and eggs?"

"From animals. Could you pass the butter and jam?" Vash obliged, waiting for a serious answer. Lethargic and hesitant to eat at first, Vash waned a liking for his meal, soon forgetting his question. Towards the end of the meal the remembered his question, and continued waiting to hear the real answer.

Setting his fork down with a pleased finality, Hammer wiped his mouth clean and looked to Vash. "Would you like to come outside with me? The weather is very nice today." He rose from his seat and started stacking dishes in a pile to be cleaned later. Vash handed him his plate, thinking over the offer. "Come on, what else are you going to do all day?" There was nothing else for him to do, so Vash agreed.

"The only problem is I'm naked, remember?" Hammer refuted the comment and directed him to a set of clean clothes by the bed in his room. Following Vash back through the anteroom, he flopped down on the couch where he remained until Vash reemerged in plain brown slacks and a loosely buttoned shirt. Prostrate on the couch, Hammer flicked his earring again. He rose as Vash passed him and dashed around to lead him out the back door. Outside he tightened the knot on his apron, glancing over his shoulder at Vash.

Fields of deep green extended far across the land, swishing to and fro in the gentle wind. Rivulets cascaded downhill away from the house, building up in small pools here and there, eventually breaking the miniature dams of twigs and grass they encountered and resuming their lazy drift toward the unknown. Vash traced many of the streams back to a pond to the side of the house, home to various cattails, lily pads, and small amphibians. There were no trees, but there was a space of ground that had been upturned, and upon inquiry Vash discovered a tree was once there. It had since then been uprooted and moved to some other corner of the world to spawn a new garden. Only after wandering the secluded plot of Eden did Vash hear an unfamiliar, yet distinct, chorus of sounds coming from a wooden pen set near the house. Peeping around a roughly hewn corner, Vash met the slitted-eyed gaze of a billy goat. He watched it for some time, smiling each time it bayed. Fascinated as a little boy, Vash circled around the pen, spotting chickens, pigs, and a milk cow all grazing quietly on hay.

"Where did you find these animals?" Vash asked with bright curiosity.

Hammer placed his hands atop a beam enclosing the pen, leaning against it and peering down at the chickens. "When I left my ship I looked for the next nearest one, and happened across this one. I guess there were farm animals kept onboard. They must have figured out a long time ago that this area was the only place food would grow, so they never migrated anywhere else."

A new thought scraped at Vash, one of mild concern. "How did you know about that tree if you didn't live here? You couldn't have heard anyone talking about it."

Drawing deep breaths, Hammer gazed at the chickens, apparently oblivious to the question. Breathing for some time he finally turned to Vash to answer his question. "We plants are attuned to nature, even more so when linked to our generator apparatus. The plants, vegetation I mean, and animals of this place heard people talking with one another about moving the tree, and I was later told by the grass what had happened." Vash was shocked. In his entire life, which constituted about one-hundred-thirty years, he had never been attuned to nature. Picking up on his confusion, Hammer explained, "You, of course, wouldn't know this because you have been exposed to little, if any, nature during your life. I suppose it could even be that you are simply weak in that category whereas I am strong."

Vash considered this at great length. He was never aware that he and his brother may have separate abilities. This thought then led him to wonder what capabilities Knives had at his disposal. Hammer paced around toward the field of grass, looking about nervously and flicking his earring. "I am not a fighter, but I will protect this land with my life, and don't think I'd allow myself to die fighting. If anyone comes along here toting trouble I plan on winning."

"How?" Vash followed his unusual host out to the sloping green hills, carefully stepping over anything that could be crushed underfoot.

"How, indeed," Hammer retorted. He came to a stop and spread his arms out wide. Leaving himself open, he commanded to Vash, "Shoot me."

"What? No! Why would I shoot you? I wouldn't! And besides that, I don't have a gun to shoot you with." Hammer crossed his arms and rubbed his chin, frowning thoughtfully at the ground.

"This does present a problem." Hammer scanned the area for any ideas to solve his minor dilemma. Crying triumphantly, gesturing his enlightenment, Hammer walked briskly to a point on the ground he was staring at. Scrounging through the grass, he clutched at a small rock and hiked it to Vash. "Throw this at me."

Vash expertly snatched the rock from its trajectory. He kneaded the small stone in his hand and frowned at Hammer. "Are you a masochist, or something?"

Hammer laughed raucously, flicking his earring. "Goodness, no. But I assure you that no matter how hard you throw that rock, no matter where you hit me, you will not hurt me _in the slightest_." Vash hummed to himself, perturbed at Hammer's persistence. This was beginning to annoy him, yet he felt strangely obligated to do as he was told so he could repay the hospitality and kindness he was given. Reeling his arm back with a pause of uncertainty, Vash chucked the little stone lightly at Hammer. It bounced off with a muffled thud, rolling through the grass. Hammer retrieved it in disappointment, casting it back to Vash. Assuring Vash that he could do better, Hammer stood unguarded for another attack. Still uncomfortable with the situation, Vash lobbed the stone with slightly greater force. It bumped against him with a soft thump, paused for a second or two, and fell to the ground.

"Did I just see it come to a dead stop?!" Vash implored. Hammer nodded, a smile stretching across his pale face, and he again recovered the stone. Smiling deviously, he tacitly challenged Vash to throw with greater force. Taking the stone in his hand again, rearing back to launch it with a full-bodied throw, Vash launched the tiny rock with an aggressive pitch. Sailing through the air, the rock smacked against Hammer and froze instantly. There was no effect, not even his clothes were ruffled. Vash cursed aloud.

Filled with mirth, Hammer chuckled sheepishly as he stooped to retrieve the stone once more, juggling it in one hand. "It appears I also have the ability to nullify vectors. What that basically means is if anyone tries to assault me corporeally in any manner I can strip them of any offensive power through mere physical contact. I'm invincible." Hammer tossed the stone into the air, moving his other hand above it to intercept it. On contact, the stone went motionless. "While this has no directly offensive capabilities, I suppose I could do something drastic like stop one's heart and whatnot." The stone peeled slowly from the surface of his hand and continued its regular descent to the earth. "I can activate and deactivate this skill any time I wish, though it does drain me to use it for long periods of time."

Vash watched the stone with wonder and curiosity, chewing his words for something appropriate to say. Hammer sighed and flicked his earring, turning disheartened. "Unfortunately, I can't go with you. I've already explained that I want to protect this little oasis in hopes that someone like you will bring others here. I must act as guardian to this place that may hold the future of this planet."

"Friend, even if you offered I wouldn't want you to come." Hammer turned a quizzical eye on Vash, asking why he would turn down help. "Because this is my battle. Knives is _my_ brother, and no one else's. He is my responsibility and I will make sure he causes no one else any harm."

"Is it possible you're taking this too hard on yourself? It looks quite illogical to me to blame yourself for the actions of another, especially an insane man." Vash shot him an angry glare, which he was quick to defend himself against. "Sorry to offend you, but I've seen him when he gets really nasty." He flicked his earring. "I think God would piss his pants if he saw the frustration and hatred bottled up in Knives aimed directly at him the way I did." Deep melancholy filled Vash and his shoulders sagged under the weight of disappointment in his brother. "Don't feel bad about it. I'm sure he won't be doing anything for at least a week, so you're welcome to stay longer if you need to."

"Thank you. I think I will." Vash wandered back over to the animal pen, looking longingly at the simple creatures. "Do you have any chores I could do while I stay? I need to get into the practice of only using one arm, after all."

"Well certainly! I should think we will begin you with a regimen of wood chopping, how does that sound?"

Vash smiled warmly. "I would like that." Hammer returned the smile and set off to grab the ax, flicking his earring along the way.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, there. Was that any better? I don't have anything else to say.


	9. Dirtyl Communist Tactics

This is a bit underhanded of me, so I apologize in advance. I have not updated any stories on this page for quite a while, and I have noticed that a few other people I have been watching have not either. silverarm, FinalEva, kaede-chan, Uranasu, Miss Caribbean, PurpleRoses, and TerribleT, I'm watching you. And I am still waiting for a new post from most of you. This is not meant to accuse any of you, what I am saying now is an introductory for my proposition. Ignore any past relations I have had with you. Ignore any emails I've sent, reviews I've made, or agreements I've settled on. This involves each of you, impartially. I challenge each of you to a cooperative game, the rules of which I have listed below.

The purpose of this game is for a person to increase his level of responsibility so that he can do what is required of him in spite of all reasons that he could not or should not. The valuable final product of this game is something produced by the participant that he can be proud of. And now I give you the rules.

Rule 1: The game will take place between any party of two or more people. Once the game has begun, others may join at a later time. If a person joins halfway through a game, he will be expected to submit his work within the same time-frame as the original game, _not_ at the established deadline. Rule 2: There will be set before the game begins an exact time-frame for participants to write in. This time-frame will never be any longer than one and one half weeks in duration. This time-frame is not negotiable once the game has begun, but it may be negotiated before the game begins. Rule 3: Before the game starts, each participant is assigned an exact quantity that he must write. This is negotiable only if the participant feels the workload is overwhelming or disproportionate to the workload of other participants, and may only be negotiated before a game starts. A workload is usually no more than two chapters, unless the person writes shorter chapters. The material written by the participants is irrelevant so long as it meets the minimum requirements. The work submitted by a participant may exceed the requirement if the person chooses to write more. Rule 4: Anyone may initiate a game with any other person at any time, and may do so as often as he wishes. He is, however, expected to meet each separate deadline with different material for each game he is in. It is not dishonorable to decline a game while one is already in another game. It _is_ dishonorable to decline a game because one is lazy. Rule 5 (optional): Once all material is submitted, each participant must review all work submitted by all other participants. If this rule is used, there may be no discrimination against who is or is not reviewed. Special Rules and Handicaps: Extra challenges may be added to a game, such as updating a website, completing a picture, etc., so long as the challenges are productive and help the person get his work done. One may request less writing if outside influences prevent him from writing as much as others, but this is looked down on.

Considering the rules given above, I challenge all of you I listed before to write one chapter of any story in one week. I want a reply from each of you, by email, either accepting or declining this offer. Once I have a reply from each of you, I will let you know the game has official begun. This chapter will only be up for four days, then I will take it down because it is unnecessary and has nothing to do with the plot of this story. Please don't respond by reviewing this chapter, I want an individual email. I wish the best of luck to all of you, and look forward to your updates.


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